


These Sheets, Those Shelves, and This Shitty Place (—and Shion)

by buttday



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 07:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14744243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttday/pseuds/buttday
Summary: Shion's warmth is fading from the mattress. Nezumi feels disarmed.Shion has just finished the Iliad and is going off to look for the Odyssey after Nezumi told him they were related works. What of it?A loaded exchange between Shion and Nezumi in the library vault on a night before the Manhunt.





	These Sheets, Those Shelves, and This Shitty Place (—and Shion)

**Author's Note:**

> hello. it was my birthday yesterday so of course i wanted to update the shion/nezumi birthday fic, but this finished itself first so... hehe. >:) anyway, here it is.  
> in the manga and novel, they said that the manhunt came "one day, out of the blue" so i just supposed it didn't immediately happen after that chapter nezumi had an episode and danced with shion to make him stop worrying about him, and i supposed that that didn't immediately happen after they ambushed fura. yes.  
> super wordy and introspective, but i really enjoyed writing this. i hope you enjoy reading it as well!

            Nezumi whistles, not looking up from his book, not even when he feels Shion stirring beside him. "You sure about that?"

            "Yeah," Shion answers from the other side of their bed, "I'm sure there was a copy when I organized all our books."

            _‘Our books?’_ Nezumi twists himself towards the wall on _his_ side of their bed, away from the rest of _their room,_ having to raise his book slightly to keep his shadow from covering words he hasn't been registering. "Good luck," he mutters as courtesy, not meaning it but earning a response from Shion anyway,

            "I'll go check right now."

            Shion sits up. It's with much effort that he lifts the blanket off of himself, body quick to protest the loss of direct warmth from Nezumi. It's for this sole reason that Shion considers not leaving anymore. But shortly he's able to reason that he already has half of all the books over there in his mental catalog, and he already knows how to maneuver around this general area, knows it like the back of his hand; he won't take too long.

            Shion dangles his legs off the bed, with less effort now, peering down at the floor. He reaches for each of Nezumi's slippers by stretching his legs, using his toes to turn one over and using his heel to drag the other closer. He shifts all of his weight forward and stands, every movement careful not to disturb the mattress nor Nezumi.

            Nezumi doesn't mind it. He just eyes the same line on the same page for the nth time. He comes close to giving up altogether; on top of not having been able to read in silence all evening, Nezumi is becoming thoroughly distracted now that Shion is continuing,

            "I'm just not sure where I categorized it under." Shion's padded towards the shelves, looking through the sections, blinking slowly to connect his rote memory to this overwhelming reality. He has an urge that he holds: the urge to comment, again, for the nth time, on how amazing this place is, by the sheer number of books housed within it; he feels the same immense sense of curiosity now as he did the first time he'd entered here, books piled up high on the bed and the couch and the floor and every other surface in the room. That they're organized now doesn't change how his heart beats with excitement every time he thinks of how many stories there must be here to read and learn about, how much of all of it makes up the boy he saved four years ago. He only goes on now, "Besides, Nezumi..."

            "What?"

            "You wouldn't help me," Shion mumbles, content with skimming his fingers along rough, old spines, each hiding yellowed pages that held words and worlds he's yet to explore. "It's why organizing all the books took longer than I wanted."

            "Don't complain," _Nezumi_ complains, chides, switching his book over to his other hand, "you're the one who volunteered to do it." He's positive they both remember clearly, even if it was several months ago:

            _'It'll take a hundred years—' 'I'll do it in a week!_ ’

            "I did," Shion agrees instantly, though it took a week _and a day._ He shakes the thought off, crouching down to look from the bottom shelf up. "But it would have been nice if you helped me decide whether to catalog them by author, year published, title, or genre—"

            "And? Where would you have put it if I told you I wanted them arranged by author?" Nezumi challenges, "You didn't even know who _Homer_ was yet at that point."

            "Well," Shion replies, still scanning the titles. "I do _now—_ "

            "No you don't," Nezumi cuts in. _"I_ don't even know who Homer is. Actually, _no one_ knows who Homer is."

            "...What’s that mean?"

            "The problem with all these epics is that they're so old _no one even knows_ who the hell actually wrote them or where the hell they actually came from anymore. Was Homer a bard who ran around singing epics for money and fun? Was Homer a bunch of poets coming up with stories off the top of their heads at a symposium? Was Homer an entire country that wanted to decide on an origin story once and for all? And did Homer even exist to begin with? In reality, there's a huge possibility that Homer's epics have been edited a handful of times by different people from different times. And remember, this was ancient, a point in history when they'd just started actually writing stuff down, and by then the story's already been no less than a hundred years old..."

            Shion didn't seem to notice when exactly his gaze drifted away from the books, to fix itself on Nezumi's figure: his untied hair, his steady back, the fingers poised gracefully to hold his book to the wall. All Shion knew was that he was hanging on to every one of Nezumi's words with wonder. See, when Nezumi spoke, nothing else in this room mattered to Shion except _him._

            When Nezumi's trailed off for a moment, a thought— several thoughts— wedge themselves in the back of Shion's mind. As he processes the cognitive overload from ideas he's never once imagined in his life, especially having never been exposed to the topic at hand, heavily discouraged from pursuing the arts and humanities in No.6, he's led to a related feeling: annoyance...? or something akin to it.

            Any memory Shion has of anyone talking _this_ much was of the students in his grade of elites— _err,_ the one he was kicked out off for 'poor decision-making skills.' The kids in that class always talked about their own specialties like they knew it all.

            And with No.6's education system, really, it wasn't unlikely that they _did_ know it all. But more than that, they talked like _they were the only ones that mattered._ Of course they would feel that way as citizens born into a special status that promised them lofty quarters to rest and relax in, endless electronic resources for elaborate self-study, and overall sophisticated houses that fit their lifestyle perfectly. This education, providing for the maximum ideal conditions for growth and development, ensured that students _will_ know it all.

            Shion recollects that even Safu found ways to fit her specific neuroscientific register and vocabulary in everyday conversations. But to him she was never annoying, he never felt spoken over. She was slightly, slightly awkward, a little rough around the edges towards those who made fun of the way she dressed, and she didn't know how to pause for breath when she lectured Shion on hormones and their consequent bodily reactions— but she only ever sounded passionate, never like a know-it-all; she didn't speak just to gloat about how much she knew or boast her special status as the high-class citizen she was.

            Additionally, Safu was _actually_ talented. Shion has been turning it over in his head for a while now since the time he was evicted from Chronos, because it hadn't felt all that different: had he actually been talented himself or did he just luck out getting top scores in his early assessment? Developmental cognitive studies is as far from his own ecology major as emergency medical procedures, but if he were able to perform an impromptu suture-surgery on a bullet wound by memory of _one_ video at age 12, he guessed there was a high chance that he wouldn't be wrong to assume that an aptitude exam taken at age 2 could hardly be reliable especially the older a subject gets.

            In the least, even if Shion weren't talented— and by no means does he have any misgivings coming to terms with this— he was never at risk of flunking out from the special course. Maintaining grades in the special classes wasn't exactly easy, and he saw a handful of other classmates leave for unsatisfactory performance, but if he focused enough it was a breeze. Still not as talented as Safu, though. And besides, he flunked out of the special course regardless, just for his own reasons.

            As he helped his mother pack up their things from Chronos to prepare for the tedious move to Lost Town, Nezumi's words carved deeper impressions in Shion's mind and gave his feelings a tact that helped him realize how out of place he'd felt all along at the very top with the smartest kids in his grade. His plain, humble times with Karan at Lost Town didn't make him feel any less dignified or any less real.

            And even as he jumped out of the Security Bureau's remote-controlled car and tossed his official citizen ID to _keep moving,_ keep running (and swimming) to find himself _here_ in an underground library vault in West Block, Nezumi's words materialized and Shion could finally fully grasp them:

            _'Petri dish elites'_ was on-point, is exactly what they are, what Shion used to be— brought up and pampered in artificially perfect environments to be reared and controlled exactly as they should.

            But in Lost Town and West Block alike, especially here in this room— in a place that experiences the real impacts of fickle weather and he has to either turn the heater up or scoot closer to Nezumi to make it through the night without his teeth chattering the entire time, in a place where he's free to pursue any book he wants to read on any topic, whether scientific or literary (but mostly literary) and learn about heroes and dramas and tragedies— a place he can call his starting point, Shion realized that human beings needed much less than the luxuries in Chronos and in No.6 in order to live a content life.

            With little to nothing but the clothes on his back, with Nezumi and the library and this bunk they share, Shion feels like he has everything he could ever need.

            Shion wonders how Safu would react if he said that to her.

            _It's because I left No.6..._ He comes up with the words in his mind, as if addressing them to Safu, _that I discovered what kind of person he really is, the very reason I didn't get to push through with the special course. That I discovered what kind of person_ I _really am. It's not a walk in the park, but... I don't regret meeting him, or following him, or staying with him. In fact... he's just like you, in a way._

            He could almost hear Safu's voice, pretend-condescending but undeniably sweet, _What are you talking about, Shion?_

            Shion closes his eyes. What _was_ he talking about?

            Safu and Nezumi may speak on relatively similar levels of enthusiasm when it came to things they're knowledgeable about— whether it's neuroscience or literature— but there's no way Safu and Nezumi are alike, not even at the base level however he cut it.

            Nezumi never spoke warmly, or cheerfully, or looked at Shion like he was the most wonderful part of his life. Nezumi's words were always cold, edged, and quite frankly he looked down on Shion more than anything.

            Shion treasures them both, though. That's about all they may ever have in common. He would do anything to keep them both in his life, protect them at any cost.

            Shion recalls vividly the sensation of Nezumi's fingers interlocked with his, and he's able to calm down the extreme anxiety that rises in his chest with every thought he gets of Safu these days.

            The only way he's able to stand his ground knowing Safu is currently in danger is by Nezumi, the faith he has in the plans they have to go save her themselves. The waiting is just part of the plan. And it's a _huge_ part of the plan— if he breaks by utter tension now, it's all going to be for naught.

            So Shion takes a deep breath _for the time being,_ lends himself to the soothing feeling of _being here,_ falling for Nezumi. He's able to smile as he opens his eyes to look through the old books again, listening not to his haphazard, discomforting, annoying thoughts, but to Nezumi.

            "What I'm trying to say is, authorship for the really old stuff is quite the controversial thing. And from the start, it was a no-go for you to arrange them by year published either. I would suppose that even the greatest libraries still have no clue about everything to this day," Nezumi is explaining. "Hear me, Shion? Get what I mean?"

            "I get it," Shion hums, "somehow. And there's no appeal to having just arranged everything alphabetically, right?"

            "Right, exactly."

            "Right," Shion nods to himself, "exactly."

            "So?" Nezumi prompts again, "Where do you think you would have put the Odyssey?"

            "Well, if I knew everything I know now," Shion starts, sounding a tad bit dramatic as he gets back on his feet, stretching away the strain in his legs from bending his knees for a second too long. "I might've just put it under classics with the Iliad. How would I have known the Odyssey was a sequel?"

            "A spin-off, technically— but fair enough. I don't think there was any way you could've known better before anyhow."

            "Yup," Shion concedes, casually, unafraid to admit he didn't know; he likes to believe that he's entirely past the shame of knowing less than he ought to when it comes to things like this. "Even now, I still hardly know anything about literature. Can you cut me some slack?"

            Nezumi shrugs his shoulders. He folds the page he's been stuck on and sets his book down. He rolls over away from the wall, arm unconsciously falling forward to feel Shion's residual warmth on his side of the bed. He glances at the copy of the Iliad Shion's left behind before finding that Shion's disappeared into the space between the other bookcases. "Since I'm feeling generous," Nezumi simpers into the pillow, _"fine."_

            While it's a topic close to Nezumi's heart for various reasons, he can't fault Shion for his naivety if it's not about the hideous workings of this world or the nihilistic cruelty of reality. Tonight, there's no need for hostility; he wouldn't let Shion make excuses for anything else.

            "I _will_ cut you some slack."

            "Thanks," Shion answers from a far corner of the library, voice muffled from being absorbed by the volume and volumes of books.

            "I gotta say though, Shion," Nezumi calls, raising his voice if only slightly to reach Shion from the bed and beyond the first shelves across the room, "You finished the Iliad in three days. I'm surprised."

            "I don't know," Shion chuckles sheepishly, voice automatically adjusting as well, "Once I was past all the language in Shakespeare, other things seemed a little easier to digest."

            _"Ooh,"_ Nezumi moves onto his back, looking up at the ceiling and picking up Shion's book instead of his own. He raises it above him, makes a show of fanning through the pages elegantly, to no one in particular, perhaps to himself. With his arms outstretched and dust catching in his shirt sleeves, he idly muses that there was always something so calming about flipping through these pages this way. His eyes fall closed in relaxation, lips curling in satisfaction. "I'm impressed. So Your Majesty truly is a fast learner."

            "Why," Shion sings, from another corner of the library, _"my most trusted liege Nezumi,_ was that praise?"

            Nezumi's eyes shoot open at the comment, he freezes—  _had_ he really just praised Shion? His fingers are clutching at the book now, and he has to physically stop himself from using it, open and dusty, to cover his face.

            Instead, he feigns plaintiveness despite knowing Shion hadn't seen his reaction, doesn't even turn his head. He closes Shion's book carefully and puts it down beside him, shifting to sit by propping himself up on an arm.

            Shion's warmth is fading from the mattress. Nezumi feels disarmed.

            Several thoughts occupy his mind, faster than any of the words he's given up repeatedly trying to take in all evening, and they're all about Shion.

            Easily, effortlessly, expectedly, all he can think about again is _Shion._

            Nezumi licks his lips, trying to decide what to quip about first, which to scoff at and make a snide remark on, to save himself from this disarmed feeling that he absolutely hates: that Shion just sang-song an obvious attempt at a comeback, that the book by his hand lay perfectly flat and even, or that these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place will _never be the same again—_

Shion, his voice, it has a specific quality: genuine-sounding and engaging, modulations mice and children alike have grown fond of listening to for a reason or another. If he just learned to project and animate that pathetic monotone Macbeth wouldn't have to roll over in his grave— that's what Nezumi used to think. But just now, Shion's response, it was sanguine, true to character: a one-liner that undoubtedly matched Nezumi's well-rehearsed effort to play with him this king-vassal ruse.

            Nezumi lets his mind wander in that direction— when did Shion learn to act so well? It was probably a fluke and nothing more, but a part of Nezumi wouldn't put it past Shion to just _learn_ how to do it even if they'd both agreed that he wasn't cut out to play roles he's not suited for in the least. He contemplates what kind of person Shion is, and arrives to some conclusion that if there were any book on theatrics laying around here— not unlikely, by the way— Shion could just practice as soon as he knew the theory, and he could probably do it that way with technically anything.

            Along with Nezumi's mind, his hand wandered, too, seeking more of Shion's warmth before it fled the sheets completely. Finding not nearly enough anymore, his hand settles back on Shion's book, pads of his finger flipping through the corner of the pages. Nezumi's mind settles here, too.

            Shion has tons of quirks but among those that intrigued Nezumi most was how, as he read along, Shion would unfold any dog ears Nezumi's left in the book from whenever long ago he'd read it. Nezumi adored these books but that didn't keep him from vandalizing them, folding pages to mark where he left off, or underlining or encircling or boxing lines he liked to revisit, writing his own footnotes wherever there was space. Shion, though, did none of that— he would turn these pages so gently that even the dust wouldn't shuffle. He wouldn't even use a bookmark, that boy, he would only memorize which page number he was last on, then pick it up from there next time.

            If Shion had extra time, which he always seemed to have on top of meticulously washing Inukashi's rental dogs or shopping for bargains for low-tier groceries for him and Nezumi, he would sit down with his book and read, smooth out the old folds, fix up any tears with some clear tape, and remove those pencil markings while he was at it.

            _'I mark those for reference, you know,'_ Nezumi had confronted him once, recently, when he caught him fiddling gently with a worn copy of Tristan using an eraser. _'Well, if you ever need a line for anything,'_ Shion returned, airily tapping his temple with his pointer finger, _'It's in here now. You can just ask me.'_

            Nezumi remembers snorting to ask if he was showing off, _so this is the brain of an elite, huh?_ But Shion only chalked it up to mental exercise, said that if he had the Correctional Facility floor plan with its numbers of steps and angles of exposure and vulnerability crammed on its own in his head, he would lose it. And besides, he's done all this since coming here to begin with, earnest in his quest to learn about Nezumi and take him in through these books. So it happened, that every book Shion touched, though visibly aged and still dust-laden, sat nearly as flat and bound to its spine as it was the day it was printed.

            Nezumi straightens his back now.

            He vaguely recounts his grandmother's words, _'Never sigh for anyone.'_ She also used to tell him all the time, that this chamber had everything he would ever need.

            It was only after she was gone and he'd barely managed to get back here alive that he started to learn that they were loaded words— words that seemed to mean more than they did the last time he thought of them, each time he thought of them.

            Not sighing for others meant fighting for himself and himself alone. It meant doing anything it took to keep himself alive, coming in and out of every ordeal with new ways to survive if only for another week longer, another day. Nezumi was to sink his teeth into his lip and silently prowl anywhere he can fit, steal from the unguarded but never take more than he needed.

            And on days there was absolutely nothing to take from anywhere, places even his mice couldn't loot for the barest minimum, because that's just the kind of place the West Block is, he could retreat into this room.

            This room, dark, quiet, and underground, was secure, a safe haven.

            Not sighing for others meant crying for himself and himself alone. It meant doing anything it took to keep himself sane, and Nezumi, half-delirious from hunger and a fever, would reflect and realize that they were true, his grandmother's words: this place really did have everything he needed.

            Here, he could pick a book, a story, a line to lose himself in, keep starvation at bay by occupying himself with all kinds of tales told on paper. Here, he could practice sighing and soughing, for those characters and their tragedies, but never still for anything or anyone else. Here, he would learn about the simplistic tendencies of the human, their sensibilities, their desires; Nezumi was to smirk and whisper, grant the weak-willed's wishes with choreographed sweet nothings.

            And here, he would learn that which was his sure salvation from cold, hard poverty— Nezumi was to learn how to sing. How to let lyrics flow from his mouth and ride the wind that steals away suffering souls, and how to let scripts live through him to thieve the hearts of other humans by enchantment.

            Nezumi was to never sigh again.

            The thought came over him as he caught himself sitting motionless with baited breath— _he was about to sigh again._ He's lost count of how many times he's sighed in the last few months, lost count of how many times he's fought and cried but never just for himself or these stories.

            Nezumi can't even remember the last book he finished. He had an extensive, unorganized reading list, and on his off-days from the playhouse he would lay in bed the entire time and bury himself in his mountains of books to read to his mice.

            But now, distracting him from ever finishing another book, someone has stolen his attention— someone who took this place over by reading to the mice, organizing all the bookcases, making this bed every morning, _keeping him warm._

            Shion has been like the sun, full of light and life and warmth, and when Nezumi is with him he feels real, and alive— _Living people sure are warm._

            When they conversed, even when Nezumi had little to no idea where on earth Shion got what he's saying or how the hell he has the guts to be saying them at all— naive ideals, bare confessions, words of irrefutable hope and love— Nezumi felt real, and alive, _so alive,_ that for the first time in his life he had more than himself and fiction to cling to.

            Whether harsh debates or playful banter, it was accompanied by stale and moldy bread, meat a day away from rotting, water heated in an old kettle— and Macbeth soup, on relatively better days, like either of their paydays from giving dogs baths and putting on shows in the theater— and they've never quite felt like luxuries before, just the bare requirement not to starve to death or completely go insane. But that he had Shion's company over shamefully cheap dinner made him ignore orders from his grandmother never to sigh, and instead Nezumi would agree with her other words, with all his hesitant heart, that this chamber—

            —these sheets, those shelves, this shitty place—

            (—and those ignorant, innocent words, and that light that stubbornly, incessantly shone through— _and Shion—)_

            —is all Nezumi would ever need.

            And while during these days Nezumi experienced several episodes of emotional unrest, somehow he couldn't help thinking that these have been the most peaceful days of his life. Even if there were less air to breathe in this cramped vault, less room to move on this single-size bed, less surface area of this cheap blanket to put over his scrawny body, there was also less fuel and tinder used up to keep the kerosene heater lit, less nightmares or sleepless nights to be had, and less cold mornings to wake up to.

            Life like this is comfortable.

            That Shion would come back and slip under these sheets after fiddling and twiddling around those shelves to retire with him in this room— as has become routine— is _comforting_ to Nezumi. Life like this _, with Shion,_  is all Nezumi would ever need.

            But the warmth that spreads through Nezumi's chest at the thought freezes over instantaneously, unnaturally; it becomes a sharp sensation stabbing at his lungs and his heart— these peaceful, comfortable days _can't last._

            _These sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place—_

_—and Shion—_

            Nezumi suddenly feels uncertain if he's willing to wager all of this; it's the same feeling he got when he decided by himself to gather information how-many monthly paychecks' worth to get as far as he can without involving Shion and his reckless tendencies, the same feeling of grudge against salty tears forcing their way out of his eyes after clueless, inexperienced lips touched his for the very first time only to kiss him farewell, the same feeling when he held the trembling hand that struck his cheek and he had to swallow any doubts he had and _keep them down,_ for his own sake and Shion's.

            The Manhunt is going to happen soon, so soon Nezumi can feel it in his bones, and however much he wishes to deny that these past few day have felt like he was desperately living out the remainder of this peaceful, comfortable life, it doesn't matter. The reality of the situation is that this waiting it out is part of a plan.

            Nezumi had come up with this plan— a plan with a chance at success so low that this risk shouldn't even be worth considering, even if they've maxed every factor on their side— but he had to continue keeping those doubts down, believe in his own plan, promise they would _make things work out,_ to preserve Shion's sanity, keep his spirit alive, _protect his smile._

            _Now isn't the time to waver._

            Now isn't the time to waver, Nezumi knows, but even at present, on a nice, friendly night, he's beginning to yearn for these sheets, those shelves, this shitty place, _and Shion—_

            "Sorry, it's not a tragedy this time. But did you hear that? Nezumi praised me."

            It's hearing this gentle exchange that jolts Nezumi right out of his thoughts and back to reality; he's so startled by Hamlet's chirp and shuffling and Shion's voice that his heart feels like it's on the verge of bursting.

            His hand comes up automatically to soothe his chest but when he sees Shion approaching with a copy of the Odyssey clasped tightly in his fingers, a victorious grin on his face, and the flickering orange tint of the heater in his translucent hair, Nezumi slides his hand further upward to hold his nape in an attempt at nonchalance, poorer than before all of these thoughts.

            Shion glances at him and in his ears Nezumi can hear his heart drumming loudly and erratically to the sensation of his chest tightening, clenching, wrenching— unsoothed, because his palm has gone elsewhere, covering his vitals to make up for the fact that he'd been so disarmed he's left himself exposed again. He could swear Shion must have seen right through him.

            But Shion is only cheerfully treading back towards the bed, and when he's seated on the edge of the mattress toeing off Nezumi's slippers, happily and jokingly mumbling "Even Hamlet couldn't believe that you were praising me," the fickle warmth within Nezumi's chest, or the loss of it, puts the thorns back in his next words:

            "—Praise?" Nezumi _just might have;_ following all the sentiment off the top of his mind just now up to this point, it felt safe to say that tonight was one of those nights that he, full from Macbeth soup, felt gracious enough to take the thorns out of his words to give Shion a real compliment. But when he thought about how this night could _probably be their last_ together, even Nezumi can't fight the bitterness that makes him make haste of taking the praise back: _"As if."_ He means to glare at Shion and his profile, but when he sees Shion turning to him he just rolls his eyes and they land on the flat, dusty copy of the Iliad by his hands. "You're just as good as Paris."

            Shion is blindly pushing the slippers with his heels, fixing them in an orderly fashion against the edge of the bed next to his own shoes. He tilts his head, unfamiliar with the look he caught in Nezumi's gaze before he broke eye contact to click his tongue.

            Shion revisits the words in his short-term memory, unsure of what to make of what Nezumi's just said. But, the tone of his comment was low like his usual scoffs, and the way Nezumi is averting his eyes makes Shion guess the words were meant to offend him, provoke him— yet he finds himself calm and unfazed, neither by Nezumi's words nor by his demeanor.

            It would be a grave insult to Nezumi and his praise, whether he meant it or not, if Shion hasn't learned by now how to react, if he hasn't realized that Nezumi's words are never empty. And if he didn't understand them, Shion didn't have to pry or demand or throw some kind of tantrum— he just had to figure it out on his own. He's used to it.

            Shion's learned as much in this room as Nezumi has. Perhaps even more.

            Less a serious response to what Nezumi said than an offhand answer, he tilts his head, and speaks up amidst the strange tension hanging in the air, "Then you must be Helen?"

            "The face that launched a thousand ships?" The delay in Shion's reply allowed Nezumi to regain his composure, and he's able to bring his hand away from his nape and to his chest, no longer aching, only the tips of his fingers touching the cloth of his shirt in a mock-timid gesture. He even manages a smile, sensual and pretty. "What a great compliment. That's so generous of you to say, your Majesty—"

            "You know it, Nezumi," Shion interjects, eyes lowering for a moment to imagine touching those sensual lips with his, fleetingly, before looking right at Nezumi, "You could easily be the most beautiful—"

            _"Shion."_ Nezumi says this in a tone that warns Shion not to finish that sentence, not to finish that thought. This smile, one he reserved for seduction, worked to derail Shion, but all too well. It's no secret that Nezumi is attractive and that Shion is attracted to him, but if this carries on, Nezumi's not sure he can stay composed. His smile fades along with any emotion in his face and he continues, "Calling you as good as Paris wasn't a compliment."

            Shion gets it. Nezumi doesn't want to hear it. He drops the need to tell Nezumi he's beautiful altogether, despite believing it to be the honest truth. He settles for a noncommittal reply instead, throwing in a shrug. "Didn't think much of it, so it's fine—"

            "I'm telling you to _think about it now,_ Shion." Nezumi picks up the book and hands it to him, lifting his facade to explain, "Paris could get the power to rule over a huge chunk of the world or the intelligence to fight and conquer any other place he wanted— but he chose _a girl."_

            Shion takes the book and looks to the shelves, deciding by the cold floor and the slippers tucked under the bed that he'll put it back tomorrow. He tosses it gently to the bottom of the bed before pursing his lips as he looks Nezumi over again. "You... You're so cynical."

            Nezumi snorts, "Great, what else is new—?"

            "Paris didn't choose a girl over power and intelligence," Shion continues without missing a beat. "Simply put, wasn't he just _not_ interested in what Athena and Hera had to offer? Aphrodite, on the other hand, didn't promise _just a girl—"_

            " _—_ the _heck_ are you saying _—_ "

            "—Aphrodite promised him the love of the most beautiful mortal in the world."

            Nezumi's eyebrows draw together and he finds himself scowling, "What did you say?"

            "Paris chose love," Shion repeats, sounding like he had all the confidence in the world to be concluding such a cheesy speech. "Over power or intelligence, Paris chose love—"

            "—And ended up waging war on all of Greece? Over such a pointless thing?" Nezumi could say a thousand things about how rotten and obsolete some values portrayed in literature are, especially in the classics, but he only scoffs: "Pretty dumb if you ask me _—_ "

            "It's not dumb _—_!" Shion starts to retort, but Nezumi snides,

            "It _is!"_

            Literature held tens and thousands of stories about humans making dumb decisions, and what good was literature if one didn't look past the entertainment it brought to learn from it? Especially in Nezumi's experience, from being smoked out like a literal rat out of his first home by greed-ridden intelligence and merciless power, to having to live in a literal dumpsite where people struggle everyday to make ends meet _—_ Nezumi knew that it was human nature to just take and take and take, graciously receive anything offered to them that would benefit themselves, or seize that which isn't theirs by force if they were rapacious enough _—_ at the very least No.6 was a prime example of this.

            And then it hits Nezumi, the realization _—_ it's right in front of him. In front of him is Shion, candid, altruistic, simple-minded _Shion,_ who's barely made a dent in learning about the true, hideous nature of No.6 _—_ but for sure, _for sure,_ Shion knows that if he had stayed on the other side of the wall, _no,_ if he had _never_ opened that window and taken Nezumi in, he would be well on his way to becoming the elite he was destined to be, apathetic and oblivious and uncaring but ultimately well-off, sleeping in a luxurious bed complete with plush pillows and duvets, reading and writing theses on ecology as his expertise without having to even lift a finger, and living in a completely technologically equipped mansion designed to give him the best life.

            Despite all of that, Shion is _right here,_ in front of him. On these thin, dirty, secondhand sheets, among those dusty, dilapidated, old-fashioned shelves, in this shoddy, dingy excuse of a room. Shion is right here _because_ of him, because Shion was drawn _—_ mind, body, and soul _—_ to Nezumi.

            "Sounds _familiar_ , doesn't it? Someone who had immense power and intelligence for the taking..." The words steadily come forth from Nezumi's mouth lacking bite or any trace of derision. He just sounds like what he's stating is matter-of-fact, "...but he chose to run after _love."_

            _"Ah."_ Shion understands this fully well.

            He always thinks about the what-if's of having never met Nezumi _—_ when he can't sleep after Nezumi kicks him out of bed or hogs the blanket, when he zones out trying to pick something new to read from hundreds of choices without Nezumi's explicit review and recommendation, or when he's watching the kettle to keep the water warm while he waits for Nezumi to come home. This train of thought always goes through No.6 and living his successful and sheltered and _boring_ life _—_ but it eventually finds its way back to the West Block, living his inconvenient, danger-filled, heart-stopping life _with Nezumi._

            "So that's what you meant..."

            "...That's how it is, isn't it." Nezumi lays back down, hair sprawling all over their pillow.

            "Yeah." Shion feels like this should have hurt, like it always does when he has to question everything he ever thought he knew _—_ But there's no questioning here, only a feeling in his core that he can't name, something reassuring.

            Shion feels like Nezumi had finally acknowledged his feelings:  _yes,_ like Paris, Shion was ready to wage war against all of No.6, because over intelligence and power in that artificial paradise, that greedy parasite, Shion felt real and alive _here,_ too. Shion had chosen these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place; Shion had chosen Nezumi, and he had chosen _love._

            Oddly fully satisfied by what's just transpired, Shion takes a deep breath that thins out into a smile as he lays back down beside Nezumi, not before Nezumi can grab his own, unread book out of the way. "Well, sorry. I guess I'm just not as cynical as you. It can't be helped. Besides, at least for me, I know it'll all be worth it in the end."

            _Can it really not be helped?_ Nezumi could _hear_ the self-assured smile in Shion's voice, and his first instinct is to attack him for saying such a naive thing— Shion doesn't know enough, he hasn't seen enough, hasn't _read enough_ of this world to be saying he isn't a cynic. He doesn't have enough an idea of what's going to happen from here on out to be saying it was _all worth it._ In what end?

            If the manhunt really happened tomorrow... _would you still be able to smile and say that? Shion?_

            But Nezumi only returns to his earlier position when Shion had gone off to look for the Odyssey right after finishing the Iliad, facing the wall. He unconsciously sighs at the relief— Shion's warmth is reaching him again.

            He thinks to tell Shion not to start another book when he hears him open to the first page of the Odyssey. If the Manhunt really happened tomorrow, he might never be able to come back to it.

            Nezumi opens his book. The lines still don't register. He might never be able to come back to it, either. He wills himself not to think of it. He wills himself to say nothing more.

            Tomorrow, Nezumi is going to have hogged the sheets again but Shion will make the bed nevertheless. Nezumi is going to ask about another title to try to read and Shion will guide him through the shelves using his mental catalog. They'll take turns reading their books to the mice, maybe dance again in this room before going out.

            They won't know that it will be the last of these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place that they'll ever see.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! :)


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